Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Ghosts, Ghouls, and Drunken Antics

Before I get into my real post (it isn’t even really a real post anyway) –

If I could marry my bed, I think I would.  It’s so so so comfortable and on these chilly days it’s so cozy under my mound of blankets and surrounded by my piles of pillows.  Plus, Henry’s a good cuddler.

(The fact that I felt the need to post this in my blog for posterity should show you just how seriously in love with my bed I am.)

********** Oh, one more random thing **********

I don’t know what I did to my foot/ankle two Fridays ago but it’s definitely not good.  It is all kinds of sprained/pulled/I-don’t-know-what-but-it-hurts-like-a-mothafucka.

This week the swelling has finally dissipated so I no longer have that throbbing feeling going on, but it’s almost worse now because of the constant burning I feel anytime I don’t have my foot in exactly the right position or put weight on it for more than 10 minutes. 

Because of this, I haven’t been to my kickboxing class in two weeks and I’m mad about it.  I know it’ll eventually heal but I’m too scared of injuring it worse to go to a class where I have to jump and run and – hell, even being on my feet that long is terribly painful. 

I’m trying my best to keep things in perspective – like how I could deal with this every day like my best friend does.  As if I needed more reasons to respect her, every time I get an injury like this it reminds me that she has to put up with pain every day - and she pretty much never whines.  Time to let her strength (that eternal strength that seems to always radiate from her) teach me how it’s done.

********** Now for the real post, which isn’t really a real post anyway. **********

Halloween is so totally my favorite holiday and this year didn't disappoint.

Thanks to everyone who came to Absolutely the Only Halloween Party You’re Going To

First, the party was a blast but - holy potatoes! - my apartment was a wreck!  Note to self: the next time I have a huge bowl of candy around a group of drunkards I will also strategically place garbage cans everywhere.  Not to mention the beer cans and rocks glasses sitting on every available surface (including the floor)…

Thankfully I had motivation to clean last night when, sitting in my pajamas watching TV at 7:30, I got a phone call from a boy who wanted to come over and hang out.  You would not believe how quickly you can clean an apartment, re-dress yourself, apply make-up and curl your hair when you have the right motivation.  If this hadn’t happened I’m sure the place would be trashed until the next party. 

Secondly, I’m sorry to everyone who had to put up with me toward the end of the night when we were downtown.  Especially Francesca and the Bear for giving me a ride home even when I was being… difficult.

And that bachelor party who were wearing bathrobes as costumes – I’m sorry for telling you that they were the lamest costumes I’d ever seen.  I have no idea who you were, or why the Groom-to-be kept looking at me with murderous rage in his eyes, but I assure you, I didn’t mean any of it – whatever it was I said/did.  And that I remember very little other than that you were tall and manly looking.  You could have been mountain trolls and I wouldn’t have known any better.  Hell, for all I know none of this actually happened and it was just a dream.  Except I’m pretty sure it happened.

And the numerous people I bit.  I already enjoy randomly biting people enough, I shouldn’t dress as a vampire and add alcohol to the mix - it just makes everything more fun worse.  I’m sorry and I hope I did didn’t bruise any of you.

Thirdly, thanks to Javier for deciding he needed to get me drunk – when I was already drunk.  I’m not sure what it says about his state of mind at the time that he didn’t recognize Drunk Ann when he saw her, but I blame him for everything I did on Saturday night after 11pm.  Including the time around 1am when I was apparently alone, wandering the streets texting everyone I knew – including Javier who got the ever so friendly, “Sucka!”  Apparently I already knew it was his fault that I was drunk and alone on Halloween.  (Don’t worry, I found my friends soon enough.  Or at least I found people in costumes that reminded me of my friends who drove me home and didn’t murder me.  Thanks to those people!)

It certainly wasn’t the wildest Halloween I’ve ever had (that weekend in Madison with the girls when we were freshly 21 comes to mind… or that Halloween a couple of years ago that… well… we’ll just be quiet about that Halloween) but it was definitely a good time.  Maybe.

…Can anyone tell me if it was a good time?

Much love,
Annie Jay

P.S. – There’s music and costumes at the Hook tomorrow night.  I’m thinking about donning my costume and heading out.  Let me know if you want to come along!

P.P.S. (but only for fellow video game nerds) – Assassin’s Creed 3 comes out today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (There really aren't enough exclamation marks in the world to express my excitement) I've been done with Italy and Constantinople for a while now.  Time to move on to a new character and a new world.  WOOO!  I'm heading to Video Games Etc. right after work to get my copy.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Are We All Cowards?

This month has been… well – hell - it’s been a month.

Remember how I wrote about that potential relationship a while ago?  Turns out that after a few weeks that were awesome – having fun together, sharing the financial burden of that fun and seeing each other all the time – we suddenly started having awkward time together, I was paying for things left and right (without any sharing on his end) and we were rarely seeing each other due to scheduling conflicts.  After weeks of frustration, in which he kept assuring me he wanted to be with me but making absolutely no effort to be with me, I finally just told him the ball was in his court.

That was over a week ago and he never even responded to that message.  (Yes I said that to him in a text message – I wanted to talk in person but we could never get together so I finally put it in a text.  Lame, I know, but beggars can’t be choosers.)

The cowardice of it baffles me.  Instead of saying “I can’t wait to see you again!” why not just say, “I’m sorry, this just isn’t working for me.”?  Is it so you never have to be the bad guy?  Well, just so you know, your inaction just makes you look like a douchehole anyway.

But this whole thing just has me thinking about what a bunch of cowards we all are. (“We” being any of the young adults that I know who are not currently in relationships but want to be.)

We all walk around thinking “Well, if this person wanted to [talk to me/date me/take me home for the night for some fast and dirty lovin’] they would make the first move.”  But since we’re all thinking that way no one is getting talked to/dated/used for one-night stands.  And it’s just stupid. 

Even if you happen to find yourself in a relationship (apparently by use of magic since neither of you was brave enough to approach the other), no one knows how to ask for what they need.  Or we’re all too afraid of winding up alone again that we just sit back and deal with whatever bullshit comes our way.

At least, this is what I see a lot of my friends going through. 

How is it that such a fun, independent, intelligent crowd can be so lame when it comes to forming new relationships?  Even for myself, the only move in my book is the good old shy-girl standard “become friends and sit back and hope that one day he realizes he loves you and wants to be with you forever” move.  How is it that I don’t even know how to talk to a man unless it’s about video games?  I’m gifted at making small talk and I'm reasonably intelligent.  You might not believe that because of my tendency to butcher English grammar and my preference for the word “fuck” over “copulate”, but really, I’m not a dumby.

Why does an intelligent, fun-loving, attractive girl have such a hard time going up to a man and asking him on a date? 

Because I’m a coward.  I’m terrified of being turned down – or worse, outright laughed at and walked away from.  Why don’t I have the stones to walk up to that cute man I always run into at the bookstore and ask him if he’s single?  I already know we have similar interests – like Christopher Moore books.  Why don’t I just say, “So, what was your favorite - Island of the Sequined Love Nun or Fluke? By the way, want to get a coffee and/or make out with me?”

That’s it.  I’m doing it. 

I’m going to make it my goal this week to ask a man on a date.  Anyone have any suggestions?  I can’t just stalk the aisles of BAM! like a creeper and hope that scruffy looking man walks in.

*deep breaths*

I can do this… I can do this…

No really – Help.  Please?

Annie Jay

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Deep Breaths. Deep Breaths.

Alternate title: Why you shouldn't show up at my house unannounced.

It took fifteen minutes of walking around my apartment with an unsheathed katana samurai sword big ass knifey-thingy, for me to realize that I had let my paranoia get the best of me.

Huh... that’s a weird place to start a story and might be making you feel like you should never talk to me again. I guess I should start at the beginning –

As I’ve said in the past, I live above a bar.  Although that might sound like a recipe for sleepless nights and alcoholism, I can promise you it’s not as bad as you might think.  Sure, when I had the bedroom at the front of the building I could always hear the smokers outside at all hours of the night and the beer/food delivery trucks at all hours of the morning, but I live in the back bedroom now and don’t have any of those problems. 

And so what if my favorite game every night is “Name That Tune Through the Floor”?  Everyone needs to train their ears to be able to identify the muffled sounds of Jason Aldean or the Ying Yang Twins “Whisper Song” through their floorboards. 

For the most part, the fact that there’s a bar below my apartment just means that I always have a neighbor I can borrow a cup of sugar or a fifth of Jack from.  In my book, that’s a damn good neighbor to have.  Plus, they make kick ass tacos.


But on rare occasions, the idea of a bunch of rowdy drunks hanging out in your basement all the time is a little disconcerting.

Like the time when I was in the front bedroom and I heard two drunken girls in a fight outside.  I watched as the drunkest girl was carried away by her brother (fireman’s-carry style carried away) but then fought her way off of his back and ran away from him.  Fifteen minutes later I heard her screaming bloody-murder and I had to run out of the house because I was afraid a car had hit her. 

No, she was just two houses down rolling around in the front yard as her brother (I know what you’re thinking, it was definitely her brother, all of her friends at the bar had been shouting “YOUR BROTHER IS TAKING YOU HOME NOW! GO HOME WITH YOUR BROTHER!” and he told me their parents were coming to pick her up – he was definitely not an axe murderer.  Most likely.) tried to get her to calm down.  So I walked back to my barpartment and sat on the front step just in case things got more entertaining crazy again.  Five minutes later he walked by – barefoot.  “Fucking bitch stole my shoes,” he said to me. 

I have no idea how she stole his shoes, but I’ve gotta give her props for being wily enough to get them off his feet when he was standing on them.  And him, of course I have to give him props.  He’s a much better sibling than I would be in the same situation. 

Also because I probably can’t lift my brother (although he is quite svelte these days) onto my back and just stroll down the street with him.  Also because anytime we drink together we just end up reminiscing about comic books, Star Trek and video games, not running away from each other.


The point is –

You never know what drunken people are going to do.  So even though living above a bar that cops frequent usually makes me feel pretty safe (there’s always someone around at all hours of day/night in case something horrible happens to me) there are nights when my imagination runs away with me.

Shortly before my old roommate moved out, she went to Colombia for fourteen days.  Halfway into that time – my first time essentially living alone – was the night when I got scared – really scared.

I had just gone to bed when I heard what sounded like someone walking through my apartment.  At the time I was still living in the aforementioned front bedroom, which is right off of my living room.  The noises I heard seemed to be coming from right outside of my bedroom door.  I was terrified, but I tried to stay rational and convince myself that it was just the building settling and noises from downstairs seeping through the floor.

It was at that moment that I decided I’d be a lot more comfortable if I had some kind of weapon in my hand.  (Incidentally, it was also at this moment when I decided I wanted to learn how to operate a gun.  You know, just in case anyone ever came at me with one and I was able to get it out of their hands – that way I could defend myself with it.  Because it’s highly likely that I’m going to be attacked with a gun at some point and just as likely that I could wrest it away from my attacker.)

The only things I had in my room were pillows, Henry (my stuffed gryphon hatchling), books, jewelry, an antique hand mirror, a wooden statue of a sleeping fox with wings and my bedside table lamp.  I opted to cradle the wooden fox in my arms as I went to sleep that night.  Henry wasn’t too happy about being ousted for cuddles, but I felt a mite safer having some kind of bludgeon by my side.  The only thing Henry can do is “cute” people to death (which, let’s be honest, he’s really good at doing).

He'll hug the fear away.
The next day, after a night filled with nightmares of my violent and bloody death at the hands of a drunken frat boy, I told my friend Jason about the ordeal.  I told him that I felt like I would have felt better had I been in possession of some sort of weapon – even a pocket knife would have made me feel less paranoid.

Then he started laughing, reached behind a bookshelf and pulled out this:

Dancing groundhog lighter pictured to show scale.

And he gave it to me.  I tried to resist at first – you know, overkill and all.  But then he reminded me that if nothing else I would be able to pull out that great old Crocodile Dundee joke whenever I wanted.

So now that beautiful knife (which actually scares the shit out of me me a little) rests right between my bed and bedside table.  I wouldn’t say I look at it daily, but there are many nights when - before hopping under my covers - I’ll double-check just to make sure it’s still there.  I don’t even know if I could use it if I had to, but the comfort of having it there makes me feel safer on the nights when my paranoia gets the best of me.

Which (finally) brings me back to the beginning of this post.

The other night I was getting ready to go to bed and I walked by my front door, which actually leads to an enclosed stairwell with another door at the bottom.  I typically leave the downstairs door and upstairs doors both locked, but occasionally when I have company over they will forget to lock the door at the bottom on their way out.  Typically I will run down and check on this, but on this particular night, I didn’t think about it until it was too late.

I had just finished my before bed bathroom ritual (clean face, braid hair, brush teeth) and was walking back to my bedroom when I passed the front door and heard a voice so clear it could only have been coming from outside of my front door. 

I ran back to my bedroom and – for the first time – unsheathed my knife and walked slowly back toward my front door.  I stopped, heart hammering in my heart, just to the side of my door.  The knife was gripped firmly in my hand and I took a deep breath before calling out a weak “Hello? Is anyone there?” 

Of course there was no answer – the serial killers never answer when you ask if they’re there.  Dicks.

So I did the only sane thing a person could do.

I threw open my front door and yelled down the stairs. 

Still no answer.

So then I peeked around the doorframe and saw that the stairwell was empty. 

Still unsure of my safety, I tiptoed to the downstairs door.

It was locked.

I’d imagined the whole thing.

I ran back up the stairs (as quickly as I felt was safe with a gigantic blade in my hand) re-sheathed the knife, grabbed Henry in a death-grip-cuddle, jumped into my bed and pulled the blankets over my head.

I slept with the lights on that night.

Every once in a while I let my imagination get the best of me. 

This should also serve as a warning to any people that want to attack me – I have a gigantic knifey thingy and when I’m going crazy with paranoia you might just get accidentally stabbed.  Consider this your warning.

Plus, I’m taking kickboxing now.  So I’m tough, bitches.


Pray for me.

Hugs n kisses,
Annie Jay

PS:  Am I the only one who gets this paranoid when I’m home alone?